The Lycan King’s Mark (Nevara) by Tiffanie L. Campbell novel Chapter 10

Nevara

By morning, the claw marks were still there.

I stared at them from the porch, fingers wrapped tight around my mug, watching the light catch on the torn

wood. Whatever had come close the night before hadn’t tried to force its way inside. It had just…

observed. Left a message. A warning.

Or maybe a promise.

I took a long sip of coffee and glanced toward the edge of the forest. Still quiet. Still pretending to be

harmless. But I’d felt it watching. Felt them circling.

And something else.

That second presence–the one I couldn’t name–still lingered in the back of my mind. Not quite danger,

not quite safe. Just… waiting. Like it knew I’d feel it and wanted me to.

I exhaled through my nose and turned toward the garden shed. Time to get ahead of it all. If the woods were going to turn against me, I wasn’t going to be caught unprepared.

After cleaning up from breakfast, I gathered my list, my keys, and a woven blanket to lay across the bench

seat of the truck. The old pickup sat exactly where my mother said it would–beneath a tarp behind the

shed, half–camouflaged by low–hanging branches. When I peeled the tarp off, the engine greeted me with a

low, stubborn grumble but roared to life after the second try. The whole cab shook like it wasn’t entirely

thrilled to be revived.

“Yeah, I get it,” I muttered, adjusting the rearview mirror. “I wasn’t thrilled about waking up either.”

The roads were worse than I remembered–narrow, winding, and pitted with frost heave scars and fallen

pine needles. Trees crowded both sides, and the occasional deer blinked at me from the shoulder before

vanishing into the brush. It took nearly forty–five minutes to reach the outskirts of town, just as my mother

had said.

The town itself was small, functional, and quiet. Rows of weathered storefronts lined the main road, some freshly painted, others sun–bleached and curling at the corners. A faded hand–painted sign read Welcome

to Brookpine–population: tiny.

The grocery store was tucked between a mechanic shop and an old–fashioned diner with red leather booths visible through the windows. I parked near the side entrance and stepped out, rolling my

shoulders.

No one stared, but I felt eyes on me all the same. New faces weren’t common out here, and wolves–even ones in human form–always had a way of drawing attention.

I kept my head down and my senses low.

1/4

< CHAPTER 10–STOCKING UP

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Inside, I moved with purpose. Dry goods first–beans, rice, flour, sugar. Shelf–stable items that could stretch over weeks, even months. Canned vegetables. Tomato paste. Soup. A bag of powdered milk for emergencies. A few spices and coffee to keep me sane.

Then came the harder choices.

Perishables.

I grabbed cheese, butter, a small carton of eggs, and a few pieces of fruit. Things I could store in the fridge or use up within days. Anything I might need after that–more apples, bread, greens–1 could run in for. Literally. A quick shift and a tote bag could handle that.

The girl at the register didn’t ask questions. Just scanned my items and complimented the vintage

thermos I’d tucked under one arm.

“Cold up where you’re from?” she asked.

“Colder than here,” I said, which was technically true.

She gave me a friendly enough smile, but I didn’t linger. Once the truck was loaded, I grabbed a second tote bag, just in case, and began the slow, winding drive home.

The forest felt closer on the return trip. The sunlight had softened into something hazier–more gold than

white–and the shadows underneath the trees had stretched longer across the road.

I couldn’t tell if the woods were watching again, but the memory of yesterday’s circling hadn’t faded. If

anything, it had burrowed deeper.

Still, I kept my eyes forward and my foot steady on the gas. No detours. No stops.

Back at the cabin, I unloaded quickly. The pantry shelves creaked under the weight of the new supplies,

and I double–checked every window latch before locking the door behind me.

The sun dipped lower, brushing the clearing with amber. The scent of damp earth clung to the air, and somewhere far off, a single howl rang out–sharp, distant, and answered by silence.

I placed the last of the apples in a bowl on the counter and stepped back. I’m going to be just fine out here

alone.

The pantry shelves were full. The fridge was humming. My backpack was reloaded and ready by the door

in case I needed to run.

But the sun was still up, and my nerves wouldn’t settle.

I’d already checked the locks. Twice. There was nothing left to scrub or sort or sweep. And yet my hands itched for something. I needed a task. Something quiet. Something small.

I crossed to the narrow coat closet by the front door–more out of instinct than intent–and pulled it open.

The scent of cedar and old wool hit me immediately. A few coats still hung neatly from the rod–my father’s old flannel jacket, my mother’s long navy raincoat, and a hooded cloak that looked like it hadn’t

<CHAPTER 10–STOCKING UP

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been worn since I was a child. Beneath them sat a half–squashed box of fire starters and a pair of rubber

boots.

And tucked behind them, nearly buried under a folded camp blanket, was something else.

A basket.

I pulled it out carefully and carried it to the couch. The moment I removed the cloth covering the top, my breath caught.

Yarn. At least six skeins of it–sage green, dusty rose, pale cream, and one skein of deep indigo that still

had the store tag attached. Nestled beside them were several crochet hooks in different sizes, a pair of

blunt scissors, and a spiral–bound pattern book with a faded cover.

The first page was marked with a sticky note in my mother’s handwriting:

“Start with the square. If you can make a square, you can make anything.”

I smiled, thumbing through the pages. There were instructions for granny squares, an afghan made of

falling leaves, a triangular shawl with feather–like stitches, a simple sleeveless top, and soft plush animals

-a rabbit, a bear, and what might’ve been a vaguely lopsided wolf.

I remembered this.

My mother taught me to crochet when I was eight.

I’d made one hideous coaster with wonky edges and declared myself a prodigy.

She laughed and said, “Let’s try again–but this time, let’s count the stitches.”

I traced the yarn with my fingers. My hands remembered more than I expected.

Before long, I’d curled up in the rocking chair near the fire, the green skein beside me and a hook in hand.

My fingers fumbled at first, the motion stilted, muscle memory buried beneath years of neglect. I had to

unravel the same row three times before the tension started to even out.

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